


Kiss From A Rose

by Cardinia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: ALL the dremora!, F/M, Forsworn Shenanigans, I really tried guys!, Kind of Canon-compliant?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sanguine Rose, Slow Burn, The Kyn (also known as Dremora)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 20:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18506287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinia/pseuds/Cardinia
Summary: When a Markynaz warrior is disgraced on Nirn and banished from the Deadlands, he expects to spend the rest of eternity languishing under the rule of a hedonistic Daedric Prince.But fate (and two drunk Daedric Princes) have other plans for this fierce Dremora. What will happen when he is saddled with the one mortal he cannot stand?





	1. Prologue.

_**On Dremora** _

 

The Dremora - or Kyn as they call themselves - are the warrior force that enact the will of the Daedric Princes here on Nirn.

They are fearsome foes when encountered, but for the wary adventurer, not all is lost.

This eternal fighting force exists in a strict hierarchy and some are not  _so_  fearsome as others.

The Churl are the weakest. Not yet deserving of the title ‘Kyn’, they squabble amongst themselves to gain favour and rank.

The Caitiff are stronger. These Dremora have climbed the ranks of the Churl and prove to be a difficult adversary.

The Kynval are arrogant. Having earned the rank of Kyn these warriors are prone to rushing into battle thoughtlessly.

The Kynreeve are hungry. Having climbed the lesser ranks, these foes relish the chance to prove themselves on Nirn.

The Markynaz are rare. These battle hardened warriors have survived eons of servitude and live for the day they can ascend to the Valkynaz council.

The Valkynaz are legendary. Answering only to their Daedric Prince, these Dremora are merciless and should never be crossed.

 

You may know a Dremora by its markings. These warriors wear red face paint to show off their rank and skill in battle; the more elaborate the paint, the more fearsome the foe.

Scant are the mortals who know the true name of a Dremora, for the Daedric legion know names have power and give them to no one. Instead, they will be called by their rank; just as one Dremora may be called Kynval, all its peers are Kynval collectively.

 

To the traveller that encounters Churl. Plan your attacks well.

To the traveller that encounters Caitiff. Be patient and wear them down.

To the traveller that encounters Kynval. Use their arrogance against them.

To the traveller that encounters Kynreeve. Disengage if at all possible.

To the traveller that encounters Markynaz. Never engage. Run for you lives.

To the traveller that encounters Valkynaz. I pray for your souls.

_\- Anonymous_

* * *

 

_**How You Should Know Us** _

 

**Death, Defeat, and Fear**

We do not die. We do not fear death.

Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness. But the Animus returns.

But we are not all brave.

We feel pain, and fear it. We feel shame, and fear it. We feel loss, and fear it. We hate the Darkness, and fear it.

The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.

The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.

The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.

 

**The Clan Bond**

We are not born; we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.

The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.

In the clan-form is strength and purpose.

 

**The Oath Bond**

We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.

Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.

Dremora have long served Dagon but not always so.

Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.

When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.

 

**How We Think About Man**

Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.

How then do you think we imagine humans?

You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.

The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.

Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.

As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.

But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon.

Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites. It is a small thing. When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore.

Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.

 

**Man’s Mystery**

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.

This lies beyond our comprehension - why do you not despair?

_\- Spirit of the Daedra_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to add a prologue to clear up confusion about the Kyn/Dremora and what their names mean.  
> "Spirit of the Daedra" is actually a book in Skyrim. You can buy it from Urag at the College of Winterhold :)


	2. A No Good Day.

“No,” he growled.

         “ _No?_ ”

         “I said no churl.”

         The Kyn tried to turn away but I was faster. He had barely moved before my claws were wrapped around his throat. “Dagon damned filt-“ His words were cut off as I tightened my grip and cut off his airways.

         “Now you listen here you lowly cur,” I hissed. “Call me a churl one more time and I will make sure you are _never_ resurrected.” His widening eyes were the only affirmation I needed. My lord would be displeased if I dispatched one of his Kyn. Releasing my grip I watched as the lowly filth fell to the ground, scrambling to get away from me.

         A pity really, that I could not end his miserable existence there. With a fearful glance in my direction, the Kynval darted away.

         “Another one said no to your inquiry?” Shutting my eyes I sent a quick prayer to Mehrunes Dagon and turned to the approaching figure. My old friend smirked before he continued, “even the lowly Kynval would not say yes? You must be losing your touch.”

         I scowled as he drew closer and clapped me on the back.

         “I am not losing anything,” I hissed. “He will be the one to drop rank for insulting me so.” The thought of that Kyn losing his rank gave me a small amount of pleasure, but not as much as killing him would have.

         “Yes.” Affirmed my friend. “Yet deny you he did. Our lords will be displeased with your continued failure.” His voice held little remorse. We may have lived eons together, but all Kyn knew our lord’s and Master’s wishes came first. Indeed, my continued failure was no small worry.

         With a restrained smile in my direction, my old friend walked away, his head shaking as he chuckled quietly to himself. Whether he was laughing at me, or at my expense, I could not tell.

         I sighed softly. The Kynval had been the latest in a long list of Kyn who had refused my offer. I had started with my peers, the Markynaz warriors, who had all laughed in my face. After a week of scouting I had been forced to extend the offer to the Kynreeve. No luck there either. Now even the Kynval were refusing me.

         I looked around the training yard. A few Kyn were subtly glancing in my direction, their flat black eyes giving away no emotion as they witnessed my failure.

         “Get back to training!” I snarled. A chorus of nods and affirmations met my command and the few onlookers went back to training with one another. The army of the Deadlands were forever training and this moment should be no exception. Our honour demanded that we were ever ready for battle.

         With another sigh I realised my own duty. I had to tell the lords that I had failed. Again.

 

* * *

 

Kneeling on an obsidian floor, I kept my gaze lowered in the presence of the Valynez. They sat in a semicircle of small thrones at the front of this council chamber. It had not taken me long to gather them for my report; I had simply corned a scamp and told it to pass my message to them.

         “Failed?”

         “My lord.” I bowed my head as the assembled Valkynez snarled at my report. Made up of mages, scouts, and warriors, the Valkynez council were the best of us. To fail them caused a hot flicker of shame to well up inside me. I quelled it before the council could catch wind of my weak emotion.

         “And how exactly did you fail?” One of the mages asked, his eyes glowing with a dangerous gleam. “We gave you permission to extend the invitation to the Kynreeve.” His top lip curled, exposing his weathered yellowing fangs.

         “They said no my lord.” My voice was steady, and I was pleased it held no signs of fear. To show weakness now would be a mistake.

         “No?” Roared another lord, and I was reminded of the embarrassing conversation that caused this whole meeting.

         “Exactly. They said no,” I took a deep breath before continuing “and a Kynval turned down my offer earlier this day.”

         For the space of a heartbeat there was no response to my words. I let out my breath. Perhaps they would understand the folly of their demands. They would see it was a fool’s errand. They would understand th-

         “A _Kynval_ _said no!_ ” Roared one of the assembly.

         I shut my eyes. This was not going to end well.

         “Presposterous!”

         “Oblivion take him!”

         “ _Weak_.”

         The lone voices turned into a swell of anger as the lords began to argue amongst themselves. I stayed where I was, bowed on one knee with my head lowered in deference. All at once the clamour stopped and I felt their stares turn on me once more.

         “Markynaz!” Bellowed an old Valkynaz, his face showing scars from eons of battle. “An example needs to be made of you.”

         “My lord,” I kept my head bowed and waited for their judgement. A warrior who could not perform was not a warrior at all. If I had merely failed to recruit the Kynreeve then I might have faced a demotion, but being insulted by a Kynval? The shame was too much to bear, “I am willing to give my Animus to the Darkness and await recreation in a new demoted body.”

         The words were bitter coming out of my lips, but no other punishment would be fitting for his repeated fiascoes.

         “Hmm…” The lords began to murmur amongst themselves and I snuck a quick glance up in their direction. Together the Valkynaz numbered around one score. A few were nodding thoughtfully and a few more threw scowls in my direction. I lowered my head once more before they caught me looking.

         “Markynaz, rise.” At the sound of the group’s appointed speaker I rose to my feet my eyes still fixed on the ground in deference. “Eyes up soldier. Due to your inability to recruit even the Kynval, your punishment will b-” His words cut off as I raised my eyes to the group. They all had suddenly adopted slightly pained expressions.

         I had seen this look before. Our lord, Mehrunes Dagon, was communicating with them. I held my breath in anticipation. My animus might be destined for the Darkness, but I still could not help but be in awe of their privilege. Having the Master’s voice inside your head! I would fight a thousand battles to earn such a privilege one day.

         “You.” One of the older Valkynaz had my head snapping around to fix my gaze on him.

         “My lord?”

         “You have been given a chance it would seem.” His eyes narrowed in the gloom. He may be verbalising my reprieve, but his head canted at an angle as he sneered at me. “Our Master needs some filth dispatched on Nirn. Kill the mortal in His name. Succeed, and we will discuss your continued placement.” The old Valkynaz grinned, his smile bloodthirsty. “ _Fail_ … and I suggest you do not return.”

         I placed my fist over my chest in respect and bowed low to the council.

         “I will not fail.”

 

* * *

 

I landed in snow.

         The Deadlands were perfectly suited to the fiery disposition of the Kyn, so the sudden change in temperature sent a shock through my system. I shook my head quickly to dispel the chill.

         Another Kyn materialised next to me and we shared a brief glance before moving as one to brandish our weapons. I favoured the long sword; a wickedly sharp Kyn-made weapon that gleamed black and red. My fighting partner drew a double-handed great sword. Slow, but powerful. We swiftly appraised each other, warrior to warrior, before a voice cut through the howling wind.

         “Dremora scum!” The voice was low, but scathing, and I turned to face the assailant that would secure my continued position among my fellow Kyn. I had expected a great warrior that brandished steel and flame. Instead, I was faced with a slight mortal who crouched in the snow breathing heavily.

         Her scowl was fierce, but that was where her threat ended. Dark swathes of hair were haphazardly braided about a petite face that housed two emerald green eyes that glared up at us. She was clothed in an assortment of fabrics that must have done little to protect her from the harsh winds that whipped across the mountaintop. Huddled in the snow, she panted with a hand clutched to her side, stemming a stream of blood that stained the drifts around her.

         The Kyn next to me threw back his head and laughed coldly. Apparently, his battle cry was not necessary for such a pitiful opponent. She did indeed seem weak. But… I turned to appraise the Kyn next to me and saw his war paint matched my own. A fellow Markynaz then. Why would our Master dispatch two accomplished warriors for a weak opponent?

         My musings were disrupted as the small female lunged forward silently and stabbed toward the laughing warrior. He gurgled and looked down in disbelief. The woman must have been a good foot shorter than him, and she smiled mirthlessly as she twisted the fist jabbed against his stomach. The warrior choked and stumbled backwards, his life forces leaking out in black wisps before he disappeared.

         I drew my longsword up in a battle stance and roared. The female was clutching a gleaming black and silver dagger that held trails of dark Kyn life essence along the blade. She turned to face me and stumbled in a snowdrift; her earlier dexterity lost. Those emerald eyes stared into my own with a fierce hatred before she turned and ran across the flat landing on the mountainside.

         “You’ll meet your end at me hand, mortal.” I sneered, running after her. With two great strides I caught her. She screeched as I swung out, catching her injured side with the tip of my blade. Falling to the ground with a pained yell, she moaned and looked up at me.

         “You.” Despite the blood loss her voice was steady and I felt a tendril of respect for the pitiful female.

         “Oblivion awaits mortal.” I drew my sword down as she screamed.

         “Zii!”

         My sword struck true, but it did not meet flesh. The mortal’s body had become transparent as a wraith’s; her form as insubstantial as smoke. Without a spare glance in my direction, the woman leapt for the edge of the mountainside, and just like that, was gone.

         I stood still for a second, trying to process what had just happened. She had just… disappeared. I knew of no magic, mortal or daedric, that could render someone impervious to harm from a Kyn blade.

         Spinning round I searched the small plateau, desperately hoping to somehow see her there. Desperate to convince myself that I had _not_ been bested by a diminutive female. Only snow drifts stared back at me, wisps of the frozen liquid eddying in the wind.

         I fell to my knees and roared my frustration to the mountainside. It was then that I took stock of my surroundings. I had been so caught up in fulfilling my duty that I had not paused to see where I was. A flat sacrificial altar stood out against the white backdrop, and atop it lay a dead male swathed in blood red robes. His lifeless body was pale, and a slit throat bled into his long brown hair. A fresh kill. Was this the end of a fight we had walked into? Between this carrion and the elusive female? A frown stole across my face as I saw the gold embroidery around the neck of his robes, now spattered in blood. It had been years since I last saw robes of that type. Not since…

         Our Master’s war on Nirn.

         Raising my head, I saw the great statue carved out of the very mountainside. I had been fighting with my back to it all this time, not seeing the glory that dwarfed the small plateau. A mortal rendition of my Master, Mehrunes Dagon, carved out of heavy rock ice.

         I had failed… again.

         I shut my eyes as I felt the familiar tug of magic calling me back to the Deadlands. Calling me back to my doom.


End file.
